


Love Breaks The Eternal

by uncreativerabbit



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncreativerabbit/pseuds/uncreativerabbit
Summary: Back in the day, Villanelle was a wealthy 19th century young girl, betrothed to an aristocrat but had a wandering eye for her Nanny, Anna. Convinced that she was Villanelle’s soulmate, Anna binds her to the soulmates curse to prove her wrong, rendering Villanelle frozen in time until she crosses paths with her true love.Today, almost two centuries later, Villanelle is an elite assassin for a group called The Twelve, the only people who know her secret. It is not until she crashes an interview for MI6’s ‘Project Crimson,’ tracking a supposed family lineage of assassins, and she meets a dowdy middle-aged woman that she notices her smile lines begin to deepen.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 13
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

Villanelle toyed with the postcard in her hand, flipping it with her fingers. The front had an overexposed image of a red double-decker bus on it with a swirly font reading _London._ It amused her that in all the time she had worked for them - over a hundred years - The Twelve had never changed their mission format. Previously it was hand scrawled love letters, mission codes weaved into romantic words and cursive poetry. With the dawn of technology: the dark web, encrypted browsers and lightning fast information access, they still preferred postcards over emails to assign jobs. If they were compromised, the postcards would burn in moments while digital footprints were forever.

They sat outside at a cafe by the _Torensluis Brug_ in Amsterdam, enjoying caramel lattes and double espressos, watching the public walk by. Villanelle was listening into the crowd: tourists fumbling with bulky cameras, children complaining of boredom and couples that passed, hand in hand talking of love locks and boat rides through the canals. The last one particularly irked Villanelle who was only used to the company of her handler, Konstantin and was generally rather intolerant of displays of affection. The couple cooed about their honeymoon together and it made her feel nauseous, but she assured herself that they would probably divorce in a couple of years anyway. As she took a sip of her latte, watching the couple walk down the path, Konstantin downed his espresso and clicked in her face to get her to focus on the task at hand.

“Hey, Villanelle! Are you listening to me?” He asked her, voice gruff with irritation. She turned her head to face him, resting her hand underneath her chin. She gave him a dramatic, false smile which he huffed at.

“Sure, I’m listening. You’re just going senile, old man.” She giggled and he rolled his eyes.

Konstantin definitely looked a lot older than her: grey hair, stubble, portly figure in drab black clothes. Villanelle sat gracefully, honey blonde hair in a loose, romantic bun and a flowing hot pink halter dress. Her skin was smooth and only blemished by light, innocent freckles and her eyes were a vivid, enchanting green. To the average person, she looked to be in her early twenties However, the average person did not know her secret. Villanelle was over a hundred and eighty years old. Enchanted may have been the world to describe her, although over the decades, she had preferred the word ‘cursed.’

She had been punished severely for getting involved with her governess back when she lived in Perm, Russia. She adored Anna and hung off her every word, obeying her every command and following her wherever she went. That was until one night, when she was already in bed, she watched Anna sneak out one night to meet a man, and that man was the person Villanelle was promised to. Anna’s vast knowledge was intriguing to a younger Villanelle, piquing her curious mind, but as she got older, Anna became seductive, attractive to her, once she grew tired of etiquette lessons and piano. Villanelle persuaded Anna to teach her everything she knew, and she taught Villanelle tricks with plants, gardening outside of roses and vegetables and the most memorable of the lessons; how to poison the enemies that she often made. Some of the plants were fatal, others made them sick. Villanelle had only homed in on the concoctions that were deadly.

After seeing Anna press a gentle kiss to the man that she was supposed to be marrying, Villanelle felt possessive. Not towards the handsy, sweaty man who she was supposed to be devoted to, but to her guardian, her second mother. She stole one of Anna’s notebooks one evening, forged a note about _her_ plan to murder the aristocrat and tucked it under Anna’s pillow one night. She snuck away from her lessons one afternoon, gathered a basket of Wolf’s berries and crushed them into his tea the next morning until he choked and keeled over.

She played the devoted fiancee then, accusing Anna of trying to steal the man she was promised to, sobbing hysterically as she pointed her accusatory finger and threw herself at her, pretending to attack her. She convinced the crowd that Anna was hiding secrets in her room, that she was jealous and in love with Villanelle herself, which Anna furiously denied. Nevertheless, They found the notebook that Villanelle had planted and Anna was branded a witch, her knowledge of potions and cocktails too accurate to be human. She was dragged off and chained into the basement until authorities came to collect her and trial her - which would surely be instant death, regardless of the outcome. Villanelle would never forget their last conversation together as she had gone to say her vengeful goodbyes. She had waited until everyone had gone to bed and bribed the staff to leave them alone. As she wandered down in her silk white nightgown and robe, Anna had been locked in an underground storage room, her only company being barrels, crates and rats. Villanelle picked the lock of her room shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. Anna was no threat; she had been chained to the wall and Villanelle was just out of her reach.

“Hello, Anna.” She greeted her politely, impassively. Anna tried to rise to her feet, tried to lunge at Villanelle but choked as the chain against her throat scarred the skin and thrust her back to the wall, on her knees.

“I thought you wanted him dead? Is it not enough that you killed him anyway, yet to blame me for it? I planned to take him off your hands anyway, you could have enjoyed other women and had your show marriage!” Anna cried out, tears running down her face. Villanelle dropped to her knees in front of her and wiped away a tear that fell but Anna shifted her head away. Villanelle sank back, rejected.

“I didn’t want you to take him. I wanted you!” She stepped forward, leaning down, arms out towards Anna, as if she was going to hug her. Anna was not interested. She reached back to slap Villanelle, but the impact was stolen by the chains. A finger touched Villanelle’s cheek, the nail splitting the skin and causing a droplet of blood to run down her cheek. She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek. It stung, the blood smearing over her hand.

“You’re disgusting. How could you assume-” Anna started, but Villanelle stood up again, stepping back and cutting her off.  
  
“How could I not? You taught me everything I knew, rubbed my back when I was sick, you sung me to sleep when I was tired, laughed with me, cried with me. Of course I fell in love with you. Wouldn’t you fall in love with someone who did that, too?” Villanelle was absolutely distraught. Years she had dedicated to this woman, nights she had dreamed of running away with her. Sure, it would have been them against the world, but she was talented and Anna was ethereal. Somehow she was so sure that they would have made it work, they could have run away to Paris, Moscow, London. The pair of them talked about dreaming of leaving Perm, moving to a big city, spending nights practicing their French, fantasising of chic outfits and macarons.

They were at a stalemate of passionate shouting, both of them were crying. Anna was fighting for her life and mourning for her lost love while Villanelle was doing the opposite. Silence shrouded the room, both women breathing heavily with frustration, glaring at each other, neither of them breaking eye contact or moving. Villanelle stepped forward, casting a shadow over Anna who crouched back against the wall, making herself look tiny. Villanelle placed a hand to her chest to regain her breath. She tried to plaster an optimistic smile on her face to reason with Anna one last time.

“Come with me. We can leave now, you will be safe. I will look after you.” She held out her hand to Anna, willing her to take it, for her to be able to undo the chains and run into the night, hands twined together. Anna’s eyes dropped to it, lips pressed together. She looked as if she was considering it for a moment.

“No.” Anna said, firmly.

“Why not? You’re my soulmate.” Villanelle stuttered out the last word, snatching her hand away and staggering back, as if she had been punched. As Anna shook her head, a tear fell from her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief.

  
“You are, you’re mine!” Villanelle shouted. She cleared the distance between them and gripped Anna by the throat to pin her to the wall with one hand. Anna clawed at the hand with hers but Villanelle remained firm, digging her own nails into Anna’s throat.

“I am not your soulmate. I can prove it.” Anna choked out, redness blooming across her skin. Villanelle, intrigued by Anna’s words, loosened the hand at her throat and let her drop to the floor. She looked down at her, shuffling her foot closer to her so that it touched her knee. It was nothing more than a callous threat. Anna spluttered, trying to catch her breath. Villanelle squatted in front of her, eyeing her up impatiently.

“Well? Prove it, then.” She quirked an eyebrow, sneering at her. She was interested in how Anna planned to work her way out of her bold statement. Was she trying one last time to save her life?

“I need your blood.” Anna requested. Villanelle frowned at her and moved away a little.

“What?” Villanelle was astounded. She was sure the nights in here had turned Anna loopy. Or maybe it was a cheap way to bring Villanelle down with her. She gripped her hands, fearful of what Anna may do next.

“You accused me of being a witch. I am here to show you that I am a witch.” Anna spoke calmly.

“Liar.” Villanelle spat out. She went to get up to leave, but Anna desperately grabbed her ankle, trying to appeal to her curious mind.

“You will not know unless you give me some of your blood. Do you have anything sharp?”

Villanelle sighed and decided to humour her. She pulled out a hairpin from her bun, her hair cascading down, falling onto her back and over her shoulders. She took a small metal cap off the hairpin revealing a needle-sharp point and stabbed it into her own finger to draw blood. Once her finger started bleeding, she looked over at Anna who was drawing shapes into the dust on the floor.

“Tilt your finger. Drop it here and close your eyes.” Anna pointed to the middle of the circle she had drawn. Villanelle obliged, jerking her finger until she felt a drop of blood fall from her finger onto the floor. She pressed the finger to her mouth to stem the bleeding. She could hear Anna whispering, a language she did not understand and tuned out of her superstitious fallacies. Everyone in Russia was incredibly superstitious but Villanelle looked past it, to her it was nothing more than mythical fairy tales and things that fathers tell daughters to dampen their powerful spirits and get them to submit to their husbands. Patriarchal stories.

“Open them.”

  
  
Villanelle felt lighter as she did, any aches and pains dissolved from her body. She touched her face, it was smooth and supple. Apart from some improved health and better posture, she felt there was little if not no difference than before. She rolled her eyes and stood up again, walking away from Anna with a cocky smile. She looked back over her shoulder.

“I gave you your opportunity. You merely signed your own death sentence.” Villanelle said, flatly. She had given up trying to bring the woman she loved with her.

“I gave you an opportunity too. You have signed a contract of immortality.” Villanelle spun on her heel at Anna’s words.

“Witchcraft is a fallacy. I just used it because I knew it was the only way to kill you. What did you do to me, then?” She sneered at Anna who was regarding her with a wicked smirk. It irritated Villanelle immensely, Anna knew that she held the power of knowledge over Villanelle, she knew something that Villanelle did not. Villanelle’s hands balled into fists at her side. She stayed stuck to her spot though, resisting the urge to attack Anna again.

“You will see. I have frozen you. You will only be free once you find your soulmate.”  
  
Villanelle moved to leave the room. She hesitated at the door for a moment, clutching onto the wooden frame, uttering her final words to Anna.

“Rest in peace, Anna. Or maybe I will see you in hell.” She was thrown into the river near their house the next day. Villanelle watched from her balcony and then packed her things to leave Russia permanently.

She played between being a Parisian socialite and London seductress and part time author for decades after, becoming a keen collector of garments and eventually made most of her money buying and exchanging rare and vintage pieces. Villanelle had made friends with models and prostitutes alike and had an array of rich politician’s wives at her bidding, the majority of them she was sleeping with when their husbands were away and sleeping with other women anyway. When questioned about her marital status, she invented a husband akin to her ghostwritten gothic stories: a tragic death, a mourning widow, a woman scarred.

It was not until her friends became conscious of their grey hairs and jealous of her ethereal beauty around twenty years later that she became aware of Anna’s curse. Maybe she was always aware - she noticed that she never became sick, she could drink until she almost poisoned herself and woke up the next day sprightly and hangover free - but she never accepted it until she could see the physical effects in her social circles in which she began to hide away, writing identity after identity for herself as she moved around.

Any woman who threatened to tell her secret would be found at the bottom of the river Seine or the Thames. Eventually she caught the eye of an underground rebellion group called The Twelve who kept her secret and kept her comfortable. Money, clothes, women at her disposal as long as she answered every letter that dropped through her letterbox. She killed mostly politicians or corrupt businessmen to begin with, but soon they became infected with the same corruption too. She merely followed orders. Villanelle enjoyed the money and the perks and over the decades that she had lived for, she had learned one thing. She owed nobody anything.

Villanelle enjoyed the effects of the curse for the first century. She protested with the suffragettes, manufactured fighter jets and seduced soldiers wives in wartime efforts. She never made friends though, too scared that her secret may be revealed. Brief affairs and fleeting years was all she was promised. She liked moving through history, living through it, being forgettable but also mysterious. There would be times however when she saw an elderly couple enjoying tea together or best friends who had grown up together and she wished for grey hair, wrinkles and someone to spend her life with. She was promised one friend here or there, and that would change every few decades. Currently, her only close friend would be her ‘immortal handler,’ as The Twelve put it. This one was Konstantin and she had known him for twenty-seven years: he was harvested from the FSB rather late in life.

“Villanelle? You have zoned out again.” 

Konstantin’s voice brought her back to the present day. She looked at the postcard she was playing about with, in her hand, flipping it over and scanning the note. It was a generic message, _missing you baby_ , but the information was in the postage stamp. She traced her fingers over the raised lettering.

“Why London? You have kept me away from there recently.”

“We have a politician who is trying to double cross us. And your department is hiring a new lead. Two birds with one stone.” Konstantin was taking out an iPad from his vast coat pocket. Villanelle finished her salad and put the postcard down, tucking it under the napkin on the table. 

It had been seventeen years since somebody had taken over the Project Crimson department. MI6’s off the record secret sector of their Russian investigation desk, it specifically researched and tracked her crimes. Funded by someone called Carolyn Martens, a previous flame of Konstantin’s, she knew they had a theory of it being ancestral, a heritage of crime that trickled down a family. Of course nobody knew that the crimes were being performed by the same person for almost two centuries. A handful of people in The Twelve had been trusted with that secret, and nobody else.

“So what do you want me to do? Kill the politician and watch the interviewees?” Villanelle asked. Konstantin propped the iPad up on a stand and flipped it around to face Villanelle. She pulled it towards her, the screen displaying several profiles of different candidates. She swiped through them as Konstantin spoke.

“Exactly. He should be an easy kill, he’s divorced and his children don’t want to see him anymore. A suicide would probably be easiest. Let me know if there’s anything you want to ask about the candidates.” He was regarding her with a wry smile. She took a bite of the brownie she had ordered and looked at him suspiciously.

The candidates were generic: wealthy white old men with round faces and thick framed glasses. Many of them had dubious pasts, either money laundering and tax evasion or some form of fraud and extortion. One was named Simon, another Paul, although Villanelle’s hand hesitated on a man with a kind smile and a bad hat named Bill, who had some petty theft charges and a bit of unpaid tax. As she scrolled to the end, she retracted her finger and her eyes widened, lips curving into a curious smile before looking up at Konstantin. He had an eyebrow raised as he broke off a piece of her brownie to eat.

“Hey!” Villanelle batted his hands away. One thing she absolutely did not share was food.

“I knew the last profile would be the one to interest you.”

Staring back at Villanelle was the image of a middle-aged Korean woman with brown curls scraped back into a bun and a haggard, tired expression. _Eve Polastri, age 42. Protection Assistant, MI5._

“A protection assistant? Isn’t that basically just an administration job?” Villanelle asked. Out of all the candidates, she seemed the least likely to even find the shortlist, let alone get the job to lead a department. She scrolled through the information and on paper, Eve Polastri seemed like an average, rather boring woman. Too good to be wrapped up in higher operations in MI6, not a manipulator.

“Yes. She is the underdog of the competition, recommended by Carolyn herself. Apparently she has gotten a little too involved in cases before and when searching her desk, they found an extensive portfolio of research into female assassins and a separate one on you - well, the family you are supposedly. Watch her particularly. She is very trusting and quite talkative.” Konstantin explainer. Villanelle popped the rest of the brownie in her mouth and chewed messily.

“When do you think Carolyn will realise she’s fucking the enemy?”

“Who knows. It is good for us though, information.”

“Do you have no self respect, Konstantin? Your poor wife.”

“That makes two of us. The poor husbands of the wives you have seduced over the years.”

Villanelle scoffed at Konstantin’s comeback, saying nothing. She traced her finger over the words of the profile, humming to herself. There was nothing juicy at all about Eve, she was squeaky clean and uncontroversial. Boring, one would say. Married to a maths teacher. Not even a parking ticket or fine against her name. Her online history only showed purchases for household appliances or Marks & Spencer’s clothes when they were on sale. The only thing exciting were books she had ordered for her research, but even then, the searches were basic. _Why women kill. Wealthy Russian families. Twentieth-century Russian history._ It was like a teenager trying to source an essay.

“She’s very clean. Not even a ticket and married to a teacher? Maths of all things. What a boring life.” Villanelle pondered. Konstantin laughed.

“I doubt she will be for long. We watched her a little bit and she is starting to not be happy with her boring life. She is getting tired of her husband, he is a little controlling and pretends to just be overprotective. He is trying to stop her from getting the promotion.”

“Why?” Surely a promotion meant more money and protection from the government. Sitting at a desk all day would be Villanelle’s idea of hell. Bored wives were her speciality though and some of her favourite things to do, literally and figuratively. She smirked, picturing curly hair spread over a pillow and a generic London accent crying out her name. What sort of voice would Eve have? Would it be a surprise?

“She is investigating murders which puts her at risk. It also requires a bit of travelling, internationally. He wants her at home. You may be able to pull at some frayed strings there if you wanted to send her over the edge. Or him. Although, I will say this and I will say this at once. Do not kill the husband. Or her. Not yet.”

“Eve Polastri.” Villanelle played with the name, repeating it, rolling it around her tongue. Behind the drab clothes and exhausted appearance, she could see a woman of beauty, of intelligence, oppressed by the various men in her life and it intrigued her. She had never dealt with a female leader of Project Crimson, often they were old and boring and assumed that it was the men of the “family” that were trained in the murders.

Villanelle was attracted to her. She wanted to worm her way into her marriage, her mind, her very personality and completely shatter it all.

“She’s also on to you.”

“What?” Villanelle choked out. That was impossible, only a handful of people knew about her and anybody who quit The Twelve was shot on sight.

“Not like that. She knows you’re a woman. She assumes the assassins being trained in the family are on the mother’s side. She had described the family as matriarchal.”

Villanelle giggled. _Oh, this is going to be fun._ She was eager to get to London now.

“Does she now?” She asked, coyly. Konstantin reached down to a small laptop pouch he was carrying and pulled out a green paper folder and threw it across the table at Villanelle, and placed a bulky white envelope on top of it. She picked it up and pulled it to her, skimming through the papers. It was full of annotated articles, loopy handwriting and multicoloured highlighting adorning the pages. Past the carefully compiled portfolio was some lease details of an apartment overlooking the river. She pulled out the documents and read through them carefully, admiring some pictures.

“We would like you to leave Paris for now. I know you like the river so I thought something overlooking the Thames would be nice. It is by Canary Wharf. Business capital of London, lots of women in power suits and little boutique shops. It’s your thing, right? I included Polastri’s portfolio for some light reading. Maybe you could see what she has figured out.”

“Well, it seems she is my thing. I like older, boring women.” Villanelle teased. Konstantin scowled at her.

“Behave.” He scolded her. She mimicked a crossing sign on her chest and beamed at him, exposing her pearly teeth before gathering the files and standing up, waving at Konstantin as she pushed the chair in.

“Bye, Konstantin. I’m off to London to seduce an agent. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

“You have a piece of cake in your teeth.” Konstantin remarked, dodging her sarcastic question entirely as he finished his coffee.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle crosses paths with a nervous interviewee outside Vauxhall house and Konstantin is unimpressed by Villanelle's graphic murder.

Villanelle hated boring kills.

She found herself in a garden shed of all places on a dreary Sunday night with a gun to the head of a pathetic, quivering man who was supposedly the leader of the MI5 protection squad and part time local councillor. Frank Haleton. Eve Polastri’s boss. He had offered her money, which while she liked, she would have got more for killing him. He even tried to plead with her for his children, which just made her impatient although it was exceptionally hilarious. She was grateful for the laugh.

In front of where the man sat was a table and two arsenic pills. She had also offered him a glass of prosecco which she had spiked with poison. Neither of them had remained touched and she was getting annoyed now. She was on the chair opposite him, crouched, posing the gun at his head. She knew Konstantin would be mad if she shot him but there seemed to be no other way. Maybe there was a way to make it look like a suicide, but she knew if she gave him the gun, he would most likely shoot at her instead.

“Come on, come on, get on with it. I have somewhere I need to be by tomorrow. I’m offering you the easy way out. Autonomy. Wouldn’t you prefer to take your own life with dignity instead of a random crazy woman putting a bullet through your skull?” Villanelle teased him, giggling. She squinted and positioned the gun level with his eye where his glasses sat on his face, mimicking firing the gun. He visibly flinched. Oh, she loved bringing down arrogant men a peg or two.

Frank took his glasses off and lay them on the table. He folded his arms.

“I know that’s what you want me to do, though. You’d get in trouble if you killed me and it was an obvious murder.” He was calling her out on her bluff. Villanelle’s giggle twisted into an irritated but vindictive grin. She stood up and kicked the chair to one side, walking around the table to the back, behind where Frank sat and rested her elbow on his shoulder, leaning her head on it in a childish way, mocking him.

“We both know you’re going to die no matter what. So, if you will not take the easy way, I am going to have some fun with you. Now you’ve annoyed me, so you need to talk me out of not wanting to torture you. Well, until after I’ve killed you. I could carve out every organ as you watched. I could cut off and hold up your penis to you while you’re still alive as you bleed out. Do you want that?” 

Frank jerked away and Villanelle stumbled but quickly regained her balance, scowling. His eyes widened as he tried to scramble to his feet, but his ankles had been cuffed together so he fell, crashing against the table and knocking over the glass of prosecco, it shattering on the ground.

“N-no, please!” He begged. Villanelle just laughed again.

“Well now you have just spilled the best death option all over the floor. What can you offer me in return for a nice death, hm?” Villanelle reached into the pocket of her bomber jacket and pulled out a small pocket knife. She unhooked and folded out the blade, angling it at his crotch.

“Anything! What do you want?” Frank put his hand up, as if he was shielding himself from Villanelle’s blade, even though they both knew it was hopeless. Villanelle humoured him regardless and snapped the blade away, flipping the knife in her hands. She stepped closer to him, popping the knife away and placing her other hand on the knife too, hand on the trigger.

“Do you know anything about Eve Polastri? I have a series of ways I am going to wreck your body, the more you give me, the more of them I do once you die so it is less painful.”

Frank frowned, confusion painted on his face. This annoyed Villanelle because she knew he was her boss, she knew that he could know a lot about her but he clearly paid someone so smart no attention because he could not see past her status or what she was truly like beyond an administration assistant. She pushed the barrel into his face.

“Or are you going to tell me that you don’t know anything about her because she’s just someone who works for you and because she’s married you can’t do anything with her?” Villanelle accused, but Frank cut her off sharply.

“No! No, nothing like that. I just wondered why you would be interested in her, all she does is organise victim protection. Why are they interested in her? How do you know she is married?” Villanelle could not believe Frank really had the audacity to be asking these questions in this situation and she put a foot against his thigh, pressing down. A warning.

“I will answer those when you answer me. Or maybe I won’t. You will die either way. I can’t wait to cut you up slowly.”

“No, no, fine! I don’t know what you want to know. She’s in her mid-forties, married. Organises protection for MI5. Her best friend is Bill who also works in the same team, he’s her supervisor. She’s got a weird obsession for female assassins and likes to sing karaoke. She got written up once for trying to prove that Kedrin’s killer was a woman.”

“Well, she was right about that. Me.” Villanelle raised her eyebrows. She was about done with this man, now. Frank pressed his lips together. There seemed to be something there that cut deeply.

“What else?” She probed.

“Nothing! Nothing really. Nothing interesting.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I don’t know! Her husband has a mustache and she doesn’t like his cooking, she’s American, she wears the same blue overcoat, she’s about average height. She’s not a morning person. She speaks Korean and French which is why we hired her. What do you want to know about her?”

“American.” That was a surprise. She had assumed that Eve either was raised in the UK and spoke with a boring middle-class accent or was raised where her parents were from in South Korea. She tried to listen out for her voice again, wondering if she spoke with a southern twang or sounded like a valley girl, which Villanelle loved to mimic. Maybe she spoke with a bold New York accent. Villanelle closed her eyes and smiled, perhaps she was getting a little too obsessed with a woman she had never met.

The past century had been boring. She was tired of ignorant men trying to find her. This was a new game for her, a new toy. She wanted to seduce her and lead her away from her husband. She wanted to play at Romeo and Juliet, although instead of a joint suicide, she wanted to be the one pushing the poison past her lips, the dagger into her. She wanted to enchant her, and then destroy her.

Frank’s whining and prayers of  _ God, save me _ , pulled her out of her fantasy. She aimed between his eyes and shot once. He fell back, dead. She pulled out the knife again and looked around the garden shed, finding a saw and an axe. Once she was sure Frank was completely dead, she stuck the axe through his chest until she had broken the flesh and was down to the bone, she grabbed the saw to remove one of his ribs.

She left it neatly on the table he had sat at before she fled the scene.

Villanelle also hated boring outfits. She had tried her best to mimic that of a university graduate, wearing a long, brown messy wig with an uneven fringe. She was wearing a simple navy blouse with black fitted trousers and black loafers. She had put on some black, thick rimmed glasses to complete the ensemble before she got the tube to Vauxhall. After she had killed Frank, she had written her cover story. History graduate being interviewed at a teaching agency for a job as an assistant. Nervous. Interested in twentieth century European history - she had lived through it all, anyway - and a dreadful chainsmoker. Realistically she abhorred the habit, but Eve Polastri looked like the type of woman to reach for a wine glass and a packet of Sterling when she got stressed. Or Benson & Hedges. Villanelle did not quite know the MI5 paychecks.

As she lingered outside Vauxhall House, people in suits passed her by, not paying her much notice. Occasionally she would glance out at the river, fooling around with a cigarette but not properly smoking it. She watched the crowds and noticed not a curly head of hair or a frumpy skirt in sight. She was sure she had got the times right as she pulled out her phone to check them again. It was just after nine in the morning, and she knew Polastri’s interview was at nine-thirty. Was she late? Hopefully her little stunt had secured her the job, but maybe it did the opposite.

Villanelle noticed a missed call from Konstantin and rang him back. He picked up quickly.

“You did not send any evidence through of the task. Have you completed it?”

“Of course. It was so boring I guess I forgot. Nothing to show off.” Villanelle leaned against the railings as she heard Konstantin sigh. She knew the punishment was coming, Konstantin liked to hit her in the finances usually, knowing little else but losing her shopping budget would hurt her. Usually she could charm her way out of punishments, but her actions with Frank may have been a little premature.

“Villanelle. Have you been naughty?” He sounded exhausted. Villanelle was keen to change the subject.

“Have you ever considered a job in phone sex, Konstantin?” Konstantin laughed down the phone.

“Where are you now?”

“Outside Vauxhall House. She isn’t here yet.” Villanelle scanned the crowds, but there was still no sign of curly, wild hair. Just a lot of hair scraped back into perfect buns or shiny, bald heads.

“I am tracking her oyster card. She is running late. Grey jacket, navy skirt according to the CCTV. Do not miss her.”

“What about the others?” She noticed a man leave the building, clutching a box. He looked like one of the candidates but then again, they all looked so similar and could probably be swapped out for one another.

“They are not important. I want you to focus on her.”

“Why?”

  
“Carolyn never recommends anyone for jobs. For Eve, she was quite insistent, apparently. Somebody like her would not even dare to go for this position, usually.”

Diving through the crowds she noticed curly hair attached to a shorter, flustered woman barging into people as she moved towards Vauxhall house in a clumsy half-sprint, rummaging in her bag. Villanelle watched her disappear into the building as she pressed the phone back to her ear.

“I have to go.”

“Is she there?”

“Yes. She just went into the office.”

“Remember. Don’t talk to her. Just watch.”

Villanelle hung up before he had the opportunity to say anything else. There was no way that she was going to just watch Eve. She felt a strong, electric desire to get to know her, and she had just ensured that she would get the job, anyway. The woman owed her something and she desperately owed her some fashion tips, too. The navy, knee length skirt was abysmal and somehow even worse than her own outfit which she had thrown together.

The crowds began to clear with the morning rush over and Villanelle took the opportunity to wander around the exterior outside Vauxhall House. She read over her small notebook of the character she had designed - she quite liked plotting out roles for each of the disguises she used - and sat down on a low wall while she waited, scanning her notes with a finger.

_ Daisy, 21. History graduate, 2:1 from Kings College. Originally from Ipswich. Specialities in 20th century Russian history and 20th century wars. High pitched voice, bouncy, a little bit ditzy and overly friendly. _

She heard fast footsteps slow and a sigh a few feet from her. When she looked up, Eve Polastri was racking her hands through her hair and this was the first time Villanelle had got to look at her properly, in person. Behind the drab, plain clothes, she could see wild curly hair that was her defining feature, smooth skin and bright eyes that were easy to get lost in. There was no denying it, Eve Polastri was her type.

_ A little makeover and a nice pair of fitted trousers would make her stunning _ , Villanelle considered. She had been looking for too long to be polite, her mouth hanging slightly open, and Eve Polastri was giving her a suspicious look.

“Are you all right?” She asked Villanelle. Her voice was deeper than she thought it would be, smoother. She could not place her accent, perhaps East Coast? Villanelle realised she had left it longer than she hoped to respond and Eve was beginning to turn away, assuming she was a little odd. She snapped into a middle-class English accent and answered her.

“Yeah, sorry, just job interview nerves. I like your skirt, it’s nice.” She smiled at Eve, who seemed taken off guard. It relaxed her though and she took a seat on the wall next to where Villanelle sat and straightened out her skirt. Villanelle felt an overwhelming urge to touch her hair, but she snapped her book shut instead and tucked it away.

“I know the feeling. I never thought I’d be going for a new job at my age.” Eve sighed and rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a small compact. Villanelle noted the brand - a cheap one - and wanted to replace it immediately. She both hated but was intrigued by how much Eve was a diamond in the rough. The pull was stronger than most other women she had felt attracted to in the past. Anna was a fleeting thought, but she did not know Eve enough to compare just yet.

“Anything exciting?” Villanelle knew it was a redundant question, Eve would not be so foolish as to expose her position to anyone. She asked nevertheless, trying to make polite conversation.

“Just a managerial position. It’ll be nice to move up. You?”

“Trying to get some work experience in a school. I’d love to be a teacher someday! Secondary history. I’m interviewing with an agency in that building.” She gestured to a building across the street. Eve raised her eyebrow suspiciously.

“That’s a financial block.” She stated.  _ Shit. _

“Oh, oh is it? Have they sent me to the wrong place? Oh no, I don’t want to miss out!” Villanelle feigned panic, scrolling through the burner phone, pretending to go through maps, her false wailing getting louder and louder. Eve put her hand on her shoulder to calm her and Villanelle gasped.

It was as if she had felt something move, something stir inside her. Her body tensed and she felt...sore? Longing also overwhelmed her when Eve retracted her hand. She wanted to touch her more, to have her hand on her all the time, almost.

She was pretty. Villanelle was attracted to her, mature, curls, an understated beauty made Eve her type. That was why, Villanelle hoped although she was not convinced. Many women had taken her eye, but only she had made her feel as if the ice in her heart had thawed and they had barely spoken.

“Calm down. Listen, um…”

“Daisy.” Villanelle said, shakily.

“Daisy. If you give me an email I can pass it on to my husband, he works in a school. He might be able to find something for you.” Eve smiled. Villanelle felt pity for her, she truly believed she was helping but instead she was just falling into little traps. She was too innocent for this project.

“Really? Thank you!” Villanelle handed over a fake email on a piece of notebook paper and Eve took it, smiling. She folded it up into a neat square and tucked it into her phone case. Eve paused, seemingly in thought and Villanelle used the opportunity to admire her more while she thought she was distracted. She tried to glance into her open bag - learning Eve was probably a bit too trusting - but there was nothing out of the ordinary. House keys, a small purse, some tissues, crumpled receipts, a few sweet wrappers and a change of tights. Cluttered, chaotic but ever the mystery. This was going to be fun.

Eve was texting something on her phone. Villanelle raised her eyebrow and Eve looked back over to her, fumbling over her words.

“Oh! I was just texting my husband to see if it was fine for me to give you his email. He’s only a maths teacher so he probably can’t help you with his department but he might be able to ask around.”

Eve was kind. Willing to help a deceitful stranger in need. Quite gullible. Villanelle wondered exactly why they were interested in her for this project, surely she would want to help whoever the assassin was to escape their ‘fate,’ based on her research of what they knew of her. Her expression dropped into one of mild pity because what she could see was a woman who was probably being used as bait, and it was bait that Villanelle knew she may have fallen for if she did not already know exactly how Eve was being set up.

“Daisy?” Eve was staring at her, and Villanelle knew she had been looking too long and her hand was slightly outstretched. She extended her arm into a handshake and Eve took her hand and shook it awkwardly. Her hand was smooth and the static feeling was back. Villanelle swallowed, she absolutely did not like this feeling no matter how much it intrigued her. It felt like a warning.

“Sorry, spaced out! If he says yes you can just email me it, then I can talk to him that way. Thank you so much for all your help, I’m so grateful for it! You really are a lovely person to help a stranger like me out.” She delved back into her character. Eve smiled but looked a little uncomfortable - maybe the overexaggerated energy was too much for her and she preferred understated people.

“Well, I suppose I better head back in to find out if I got through to the next stage. Wish me luck, and good luck to you too.” Eve turned on her heel and headed towards the offices. Villanelle reached out to touch her shoulder, which made her stop walking. Panicking, Villanelle quickly slipped back into the accent.

“Wait, Eve! You have a leaf in your hair.” Eve did not, Villanelle was just stumbling, but before she could say anything, Villanelle slipped her fingers in her hair as if to pull out a leaf. She made a flicking motion as Eve turned around.

“Thanks. How did you know my name?”

Villanelle choked on her own spit. Since when had she been so reckless?   
  


“Oh...I read it on your name tag. Sorry if it’s weird.”

  
“No, I guess not. Bye.” Eve walked away but as she got to the doors of the offices she was stopped by an older woman with a cropped haircut and tight trousers. She recognised her from the pictures Konstantin had in his office. This was Carolyn, Konstantin’s enemy-turned-lover but most likely enemy again when she finds out who exactly he works for. She watched Eve’s expression turn from confusion to glee and then to horror.

Her stunt had worked. She had gotten Eve the job.

Villanelle had a bounce in her step as she returned to her London apartment but she stilled as she noticed the door was on the latch. She grabbed her pocket knife and timidly pushed the door open as not to create any noise. As she moved through the hallway slowly, she noticed a shadow in her kitchen. It was a large shadow that moved clumsily and sometimes raised what looked like a glass to its lips. Villanelle relaxed the weapon. She could tell exactly who it was by the pace and she knew why he was here. She was most certainly in trouble.

Villanelle walked in with confidence and walked over to the fridge to pull out some ingredients. She rarely cooked but the distraction would hopefully shift Konstantin out of her kitchen. She took out some salmon and some fresh vegetables and washed her hands before going over to the counter to prepare the food. Konstantin threw himself down in a chair, sighing.

“Oh hi, Konstantin! I didn’t see you there.” She smirked at him and continued chopping up vegetables.

“Yes you did. We both know you did and we both know why you are doing this.” His voice was bitter. A lecture was imminent.

“Frank was tricky. It would not have been a suicide.” She mumbled as she chopped loudly. She heard the chair fall to the floor and spun around, clutching the kitchen knife to her chest.

“But to carve out a rib? Do you not think of how many suspicions you would raise by doing that?” Konstantin had stepped forward, his face a cherry red.

“She got the job, though.”

  
“She would have gotten the job anyway! What Carolyn says goes. Eve is intelligent. You have made yourself look like some sort of fangirl.”

“Well, she is-”

“Oh, Villanelle, will you keep it in your pants?”

Villanelle chuckled. She was used to getting told off by Konstantin, her roving eye for attractive women had caused many an uproar over the years. She hated the furious spark in his eye as he took several breaths to calm down and she put the knife down to try and defuse the situation.

  
“They are angry at you.” He finally said.

  
“So? They can’t kill me.” Villanelle teased. Konstantin put his hand to his head.

“No. They can’t. They can kill me, though. So I am moving you away from London. You will go back to Paris and there will be a strike against your name. You will focus on local jobs until we can control your behaviour.” Villanelle felt a rush of heat to her face. She had finally found a job that had piqued her interest in decades and Konstantin was willing to tear her off the most important job so far just to save himself. She wanted to punch him and run, to drive the knife through him to show that she was the one with the power, not him. Her last handler was worse, though and she knew of the others in the department. He was a relatively soft touch and she could not afford to lose that, so she stuck with simple bartering.

“No.” Villanelle said. She looked at her feet.

“Yes. You are usually so diligent and professional. I do not want you to stray anymore.”

“You can’t! She is investigating me. What is the point if I cannot give her things to investigate?” Villanelle snapped her head up, arguing back. She was quickly running out of arguments that Konstantin could not shut down. He pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table before he walked over to the door, but he lingered there for some time.

“Your flight is tomorrow. A car will pick you up. If you are not on the flight, I will come and collect you myself, and I promise you that you don’t want that. Take it. It is first class. She will still be investigating your work and I will give you room to be creative. I just can’t have you straying like this.”

Villanelle slumped against the fridge, arms folded. Her back was sore and she was exhausted and distraught. She just wanted Konstantin gone. He slipped some cash onto the table, too, knowing her food preparation was just for show.

“Order some takeout. Just don’t leave your flat anymore until you need to get your flight.” He made to leave the flat.

“Get out. My back hurts, I need to rest.” She called out, not realising he had already started walking. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her from the hall.

“Your back hurts? Are you just saying that as an excuse?” He looked concerned. Rarely Villanelle complained of physical pain because she simply did not feel it. Only a brief injury here and there which healed quicker than most things.

“No. I need to take a bath and rest. Leave.”

“You are still going tomorrow. That is final.” He closed the door behind him and Villanelle locked it, crossing the chain over the door. Once she watched him leave, she flounced into her bedroom and threw herself onto her bed, hugging her pillow. Sometimes she almost loved Konstantin like family even through his mistreatment, other times she wanted to slice him up and burn him. Still, she knew that without him and The Twelve, she would have exposed her secret many, many years ago and would most likely be dead or worse at this point. Villanelle’s eyes closed as she drifted, trying to forget about the ache in her body.

A phone notification roused her ten minutes later. She groaned loudly and picked it up.

_ Hey, Daisy! It’s Eve. Spoke to husband but they are full for this term. He said to try some agencies not in central London if you’re okay with temporary work. He will keep your email if a vacancy does turn up. I got my job! It was nice meeting you and I hope life treats you well. Bye! _

Shortly followed by another one.

_ Dear Daisy. My wife gave me your email. We have an administration vacancy if you’re any good with excel. I have attached an application form if you need it. _

_ Kind Regards _

_ Niko Polastri _

_ Head of KS4 Maths _

_ St Theobald’s School _

Villanelle sighed. For a long married couple, they were the opposite of in sync and seemed to have clashing personalities that she could pick up from just on the email. She guessed that Eve’s practical and boring style must have come from years of her husband’s covert oppression. She decided to research the school and find out who exactly this Niko Polastri is.

A quick search pulled him up. Villanelle scowled at the moustache, it really did not suit him. She could only describe him as fudge: plain, beige and only enjoyed by old people. He apparently enjoyed bridge in his spare time and spent evenings running a class, which was how Villanelle assumed that he and Eve met. Or at a boring dinner party. Certainly not at a nightclub or dating app or something more raunchy.

Eve seemed fit to burst for excitement. All Villanelle had to do was lead her to it, and to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still searching for the motivation to write well. if you took it can i have it back please.
> 
> thank you to those who are kind of interested in my more...out there villaneve fic. it's not a particularly long au but the comments have been lovely! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! So I won’t be participating in KE week as much as everyone else just because I’ve lost a bit of writing mojo and things have been busy but I’m hoping to get at least one prompt done.
> 
> This is going to be a bit of a more...avant garde and a bit weird, and I’ve pre-warned you about the big thing (spoilers), but hopefully it’s okay?
> 
> lemme know what you think xo


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